


Paper Thin Walls

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Because they're drunk of course, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Jamie is a dickhead and Lucio just wants to sleep, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: Loud music, lack of sleep, and a lot of drinking can make a man do stupid things.





	Paper Thin Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Hello this is my first Boombox fic and I had a great time. :))))
> 
> Thank you to [Scrunchles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles) for the much needed beta, as always!

Click, click, click.

Lucio opens his eyes because he doesn’t have a choice. The lights from the sleepless streets bleed into his blurry vision until everything becomes sharp, and his body is coming back to him. He takes a deep, slow breath, willing away the painful frustration of another ruined sleep cycle.

Click, click, click.

It’s a familiar sound with an unsteady rhythm: Metallic, plastic, unnatural. It has no tune, no beat, but he knows if he tries hard enough, he can make something out of it. He’s practically sampled every sound he’s ever heard; this can’t be too difficult. Just think of it as a challenge.

Click, click, click.

He wishes it would just go away without him having to intervene. He wishes he could fall back asleep as if he couldn’t hear it. If he closes his eyes and takes some more deep breaths, he can scare it away with the anger bubbling in his chest. If he thinks hard enough, he can tune it out. Sure. yeah.

Click, click, click.

There’s an intense hate frothing up in his guts. Hate is what forces him from his warm, comfy bed and his feet touch the freezing wood floor. Hate makes him heft his body like a drunken idiot and nearly stubs his toe on a speaker as he trudges to the other side of his apartment. Hate is what propels his fist against the wall, and hate is what pulls his voice from his throat.

“Jesus, man! It’s three in the morning! Seriously?”

That is when the sound finally lulls, but he knows better. It’s not over. It’s never over. From behind the paper-thin wall, he hears a startled clatter, the shift of a person, and then silence. One, two, three-

Bang, bang, bang!

It’s louder now, with obvious spite and a lack of decency. He knows his neighbor is probably laughing about it too. Lucio drags his hand over his face. Same as always. It doesn't matter what he says or how loud he screams; complaining just makes it worse. Kindness has never worked, and neither has sass. He’s invested in earplugs and night masks and sleeping aids, but nothing stops the subtle vibrations from ringing through the walls and floor and air. Only the mercy of the person behind the wall can grant him peace, and that isn’t exactly easy to come by.

Bang, bang, bang!  
He gives up yet again and retreats to his bed. Whatever he’s done to upset his neighbor, it must be something. Maybe they just hate being told what to do, which is normal, he guesses. What isn’t normal, however, is using heavy machinery in the dead of night, every night, since they moved in.

Bang, bang, bang!

After he slides into the sheets, he curls up nice and tight, taking those deep breaths he’s trained himself to use since this all started. Calm down. He reaches for the earbuds and phone on his nightstand, and the blinding light pushes back the dark. He has a nice soothing playlist ready to go. The songs are gentle on his nerves, somber and eerie. Slow, melancholy melodies leave his mind a little numb with awe.

Bang, bang, bang!

The deep, lazy beats of the music help drown it out. Soon it will all be background noise, and it will grow quieter and quieter as more time passes. The ceiling is dull enough to keep his brain from thinking too hard. Just let it go.

Bang, bang...

‘What an asshole’ is the first thing that comes to mind when he finally wakes up at a decent hour. A rude, inconsiderate jerk. It’s not like they don’t know what they’re doing is wrong. It’s one thing to work a graveyard shift and sleep during the day, but it’s another to be crashing around when the rest of the world is sleeping. That’s just shitty.

An extra shot of espresso finds its way into his coffee, and he feels a little less bitter. There’s still a vile bastard living next to him, but he can manage, at least for another day. Thankfully (or not, really), the sounds are gone by morning and he can work properly. He can hear the bustle of the crowded street below him and it’s just a nice, excited buzz. It keeps him lively as he goes through his routine.

It's been at least six months since this guy moved in, and that's how long it's been since he had a quiet evening. Ever since his last neighbor old Sammy passed away, God rest him, he hadn’t realized what a blessing he’d been. A soft-spoken elderly man would never keep him up at odd hours with banging and slamming and whirring. The worst part is, he’s never even seen his new neighbor. Maybe if he knew what they looked like, he’d be more or less inclined to punch them right in the face. Whichever makes him feel better.

In times like these, he's thankful his work doesn't demand a proper night's rest. Music happens when it happens, and all he has to do is write it down when it comes. Easy. Sometimes he takes a nap in the middle of the day to make up for lost time, and that helps him think of his softer songs, the ones that play like a lazy Sunday and low hanging clouds. Slow, sweet, chill. Maybe being sleep deprived really does help the creative process. 

He's not about to be thankful for that, though. As he turns on his computer, kicks his feet up on the desk, and takes a sip of coffee, he feels frustrated energy pulse through him like an unstoppable beat. It's time to harness it.

Making music is so easy, or at least the kind of music he likes is. It’s all rhythm; a repeating set of chords or riffs, arranged in a way that makes people want to dance. Over and over, a beat carries him through wavering pitches and harsh dips, like a roller coaster. He’s glad he doesn’t have to record vocals. He can make a song out of scraps, but his singing isn’t what he’d consider professional; too much warble, not enough range. The world isn’t quite ready for that kind of sound.

His foot taps to the beat of a half finished song and he adjusts the volume, mumbling the tune with hums and bops. His apartment is perfect for channeling a modern vibe. If he looks out his balcony, he can see the city creating its own sound to the tune of money. The beeps of taxis and the hiss of steam masks the sound of people, and the skies are full of whirring machines. There is no quiet here. It is loud and dirty and perfect. There’s something pretty in the grime, and it translates into heavy, beautiful sounds that make his toes curl and his skin tingle. That’s how he knows it’s right.

It's the weekend, and that's when he's suddenly so in demand. Parties and events that want to have his name on the posters, on the invites, blow up his phone and ruin his inbox. Every one of them feels like an honor, no matter how small, but this weekend is his. While working, he’d been eyeing his old turntable hiding under a dusty sheet, having barely seen the light of day. It was one of his first; some of the buttons are missing, and there’s duct tape holding a slider in place, but it’s got too many memories for him to get rid of it. He hasn't used it in years, not since he was still playing in basements and garages, making his way up the ranks. A big party would do it (and himself) a lot of good.

Strangely enough, the building manager was excited when he asked for permission. She’s a big fan, and was just fine with it as long as she was invited. He's considerate enough to warn the nearest three floors of his party with flyers taped to every door. He can't promise things will stay in control, and he doubts he can fit everyone into his apartment, but he likes to think it's a nice gesture. He'll tone it down if he needs to. He’s anything if not polite.

When he gets to his neighbor's door, he knocks. They'll be the closest to the mayhem, so it's only fair they should know about it personally. As much as he wants to return the favor of a sleepless night, it just seems wrong. He's the better man. 

He hears something from behind the door, like the squeak of a bedframe, but nothing else. He knocks again, and this time there’s a crash of what sounds like a lamp hitting the floor. For a moment, he wonders if he’d woken them up. It was nearly two in the afternoon, but if they were up all night building a goddamn car in their apartment, that would make sense. He expects to hear the sound of feet padding to answer the door, but nothing comes. Only silence. Fine. If they aren't going to answer, then he's just going to talk at them.

“Hey, I'm throwing a party tomorrow and it's gonna get a little loud. Just letting you know.”

Still no answer. No sounds from beyond the door, so he rolls his eyes and heads back to his apartment. Whatever. He's going to have a good time and they aren't going to stop him. He'll get so good and drunk he won't wake up to anything, not even fireworks or grenades or whatever this guy might do. It's a nice thought.

When the night came, there was a line out the door an hour beforehand. He had expected the turnout to be huge. You don't get invited to a Lucio party and not tell every person you know. The living room is packed with bodies, shoulder to shoulder waiting for him to start up. He's party proofed the apartment and hidden anything breakable or of value in his bedroom. It makes the place look a little lifeless, but the blue and pink neon lights pouring out from his projector help. The buzz of people hushes magically when he starts a familiar tune. It never ceases to amaze him how people can immediately know a song just by the very first note, and the people are already shouting and screaming and jumping by the end of the first bar. He smiles, and the beats start pumping. 

He feels the floor shake beneath his feet, with the speakers drumming out the bass and the stomp of partygoers so in tune with each other. His headphones do little to keep out the intensity of the song, with the blazing tempo and a drop that hits hard enough to take the party up to eleven. The room is alive with bobbing heads and swaying hips, good vibes and a good time. That is why he loves to make music. He smiles wide, and his heart pumps to the beat.

The people here know all his songs by heart, and each one garners sounds of excitement. They dance out what they’re feeling, and feel what they’re dancing. The bodies move like a wave, rolling up and down, rocking back and forth. It’s a sight he could never get tired of. The crowd is happy; friends chat with friends, and his inner circle grows wider. Over it all, he sees Hana wave to him near his fridge, already in the process of raiding it. He feels the sweat on his face making his headphones stick to his cheeks, and he thinks it's nearly time to take an intermission. The song he's on now is thumping and going strong, and he almost wishes it could go on forever. Can't stop, won't stop. 

Despite the thick, booming bass and volume that could deafen the faint of heart, he hears a crash from his balcony. Maybe somebody’s gotten a little too into it and knocked over a chair. But it's enough to make him turn his head, watching as his glass paned door opens to reveal the tallest person he's ever seen. The man is a goddamn giant, long and thin, and he's forced to hunch down just to get into the apartment. His hair is pale and wild, with thick eyebrows and sharp features that stand out in the bright colors of the party. He’s nearly a head taller than everyone else here, and could be picked out of the crowd easily. The way he moves is suspicious, shoulders tight and eyes wandering, like he’s sneaking in to rob the place. He’s even got black leather gloves on, like the murderers and thieves from movies. But he just heads to the fridge and takes a beer that wasn’t offered to him. Hana gives him a high five as if she knows him. Maybe she does. It’s funny to see her tiny hand meet his; it's twice the size of hers, with his long and gangly gloved fingers. The man grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse, and it takes over his whole face.

It's only then that he realizes he's been playing the same note for nearly half a minute. 

He excuses himself in a hurry, setting his computer to shuffle and letting someone else's music fill the gap. The crowd surrounds him with positivity and pats on the back, but he’s busy weaving his way out of all that. Blond, spiky hair is a beacon in the sea of people, and he swims toward it.

The music slows when he gets there, and he’s not sure if it’s the song or just him, but it’s like something has changed too suddenly for him to notice. When he meets them, Hana is smiling and laughing, but the man is watching him with round eyes that hide under his thick eyebrows, making him look a little sinister. He reminds Lucio of punk rock and grunge, spiky hair and tight, dark clothes. He thought that style had died out a hundred years ago, but the man makes it look new and exciting. He’s chugging back his beer, and when he tips his chin up, Lucio is mesmerized by his exposed throat. He can see the muscles move in quick rolling pulses with each drink, and the man is doing it all for show. Either he’s intimidating him with his ability to put away alcohol, or its something far more sexual. 

The man catches Lucio staring and the burn of amber eyes has his skin on fire. Hana is talking and gesturing to the man in front of him. Friends. They’re friends. From where, he’ll never know, because he’s too busy sizing the man up. Even though he’s slouching against the wall, Lucio feels so small in comparison. If he were standing up straight, Lucio would probably only reach his chest. The idea of the man towering over him has his legs shaking in a good way. In a great way. 

Realizing that everything she’s said has fallen on deaf ears, Hana shoves an open beer into his hand and sighs. Lucio tosses it back without breaking eye contact with the man, as if he needs to prove himself. The man’s grin is wide again, dangerous and fun.

“You’re a piece of work,” he says, and his voice is twangy and odd, but the purr beneath it sets Lucio alight. Australian. “Hana’s been telling me about you.”

Lucio feels his throat spasm, and the beer threatens to come back out the way it came. He swallows it all with far too much air, and his stomach feels tight like an overfilled balloon. Hana is giving him a smarmy, knowing look, and Lucio finally coughs into his fist. “Y-Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the man answers, and he shifts against the wall. “Only embarrassing things.”

Before Lucio can get upset, Hana has a hand on his shoulder. “He’s kidding! Only good things. Except that time you skated into a parked car. That was the only thing.”

Of course. Lest he forget that one. The man’s smile is infectious, with too much teeth and carelessness, and Lucio smiles back carefully. He sure looks like a good time, and if he’s friends with Hana, that proves it. The man thumbs at his long nose, his eyes still trained on Lucio. His gaze is curious, just like the rest of him, and Lucio is thrilled by it. He huffs, but it does little to mask his excitement.

“Don’t listen. She lives for rumors and I’m pretty sure she’s selling me out to the tabloids.”

“Hey!”

The man straightens up, and Lucio loves it. “Speaking of, what’s a trendy, famous bloke like yourself doing in an apartment? Can’t you afford a mansion? Or a fancy penthouse?”

For a moment, Lucio thinks he’s here to rob the place after all. In his experience, people who talk about money are thieves. But he can’t imagine, with the way he’s looking at Lucio, that his night is going to end in burglary. It’s going to end with something much, much nicer, if he plays his cards right.

“Don’t really care for being rich.” The man nods gently, studying him still. He doesn’t look like the type to follow the personal lives of celebrities. He probably has no idea where he’s from or what he’s been through, but the attention is starting to rip at Lucio’s nerves and make him weak. “I like the city. It’s loud and busy, helps me write music. Can’t get that kind of noise in a mansion.”

The man nods again, this time with a long, sharp smirk. “I get that. I’m a bit of a noise maker myself. I hope I can help with the creative process some time.”

Lucio feels a shiver crawl through his veins and out through his skin. “You play music?”

“Nah, I’m a mechanic. Cars, mostly, but I dabble with tech. Gets loud, putting stuff together. Neighbor isn’t too keen on my work. I bet you’d like it, though. Give your music an industrial touch.”

The teasing nature of his tone makes Lucio smile behind the rim of his beer. Wouldn’t that be something? A dirty sound, like city subways and sidewalks. Grunge. It hasn’t been in style for nearly a century, but with the way those brilliant eyes look at him, he’d be willing to try it. He’d give those eyes anything.

The man tosses his empty can into the bin by the doorway, and Hana is already handing him another one. They’re going to drink him out of house and home at this rate, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get smashed along with them. Lucio follows suit, taking another beer as he finishes the first.

“Slow down, mate, you look like you're gonna choke up a lung.”

His hand grips the beer tight until it’s empty before chucking it into the bin. He sighs as the cold drink settles in his stomach heavily, and his voice wavers in an embarrassing thickness. Too much too fast. “I’m here to make music and get shitfaced.”

The man lifts his beer up in a mock toast before drinking it just as quickly as he had the first. They’re in this together.

He excuses himself to get back to the little stage he’s created in his living room, but he’s not all there. Lucio watches the man get comfortable in his kitchen, his posture slouched deeply, his spine curved like he’s carrying something heavy on his back. He may be doing it so Hana doesn’t feel so small. She hates being the shortest person in the room, and he must know that. How considerate.

He starts up again with something loud and fresh; a remix of one of his more popular songs. The crowd cheers as it sets the mood, and they’re raising their red plastic cups up in excitement. The man is watching him from afar, and it feels dark and greedy when Lucio meets his gaze. His beer is pressed loosely against his lips as if to hide that manic smile. It doesn’t do a very good job, and Lucio is feeling the alcohol working its magic on his inhibitions. His fingers are set to autopilot as the music bursts from the speakers and makes the floor vibrate.

Is he really thinking about this? A tumble with a stranger who crawled in through his balcony? How did he even do that? There’s recklessness coursing through his blood, a feeling that he can do anything he damn well pleases. When was the last time he was spontaneous? Maybe that impromptu trip downtown to see a movie with Hana when he was supposed to be recording. He never lived a careful life before he started making music. Suddenly, he feels so boring.

He keeps looking back to the man with the golden eyes and long legs, as if he will tell him what he wants. He only answers Lucio with subtle gestures, minute twitches in his grin, as if he knows Lucio is trying to put the pieces together. While the party goers move like a tremulous storm, the man only bobs his head if the bass gets low enough, only bounces his leg if the pitch is just right. He has a fine tuned ear, Lucio supposes, or at least a particular taste. He watches Lucio patiently from afar, like he’s waiting for that next intermission. Lucio will go over and drink another beer and shoot the shit and those eerie eyes will catch every moment of it. Lucio knows as soon as one of them makes the first move, it’s over.

God, is it thrilling. The man’s motives are so obvious, so completely blunt, and Lucio is going right along with it. Adrenaline is shooting through him as he moves to the beat, and the beer is making his brain go a little stupid. It won’t be long until it’s a lot stupid. He already wants this party to be over, just so he can jump off the stage and drag this weird, bright-eyed motherfucker to bed. He persists for the people. They cry out for more, and it's his job to please. He turns it up.

His legs are feeling a little numb and his fingers are loose and slippery, but he can still put down the sound. He can feel the crowd trickling away as the night goes longer, but so many are reluctant to leave. Who knows when they'll be able to experience another Lucio house party, if ever again? A few more steady rhythms later, and Lucio is seeing fuzzy stars at dizzying speeds. His gut is hot, but not uncomfortably so. It's enough to get him to take another break, stumbling through the forest of bodies until he finds the stark white of his fridge. He nearly slams into it, fiddling with the handle as if his fingers don't know how to work, and grabs another beer. 

“You're a bit of a cadbury, aren't you?”

He turns too quickly toward the voice behind him, and the can slips from his hand and drops to the floor. Thankfully it doesn't burst, but the motion leaves him disoriented. His back hits the fridge, and suddenly he’s reaching out, grabbing a slick leather jacket and yanking it forward. The man comes with it and is quick to press his arm to the top of the fridge, just to keep a little distance between them, and that’s insanely frustrating. He casts a long shadow over Lucio, and Lucio wants more of that, but even with his eyes misty with inebriation, he can see the doubt in his crazy smile.

“Dunno if I can follow through, superstar. I’m drunk.”

“Then I guess we’re even,” he answers, tugging harder this time, and then there’s no more resistance, only hot mouths crushing together sloppily. There isn’t grace or decency in either of them anymore, and Lucio is practically crying at the feeling of those cold leathered fingers delving under his shirt to squeeze at his waist. They make his sweaty skin tingle, and he arches forward for more.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” is somewhere in his ears. Had Hana been there the whole time? He can’t do anything with the hands slipping around his sides and settling over his ass, and his own fingers gripping messy blonde hair. He’s lost in a kiss that tastes like beer and irresponsibility. “Jesus, Lu, can you not?”

No, he can’t not. They’re melting together under the boom of a lovely bass and the thick, flickering neon coating every inch of this place. He's breathless, and the tongue in his mouth is impatient, and the world is made of fire and loudness and pressure. He wants to be closer to the man with the outdated style and terrifying smile. Lucio doesn't even know this guy’s name, but their kiss feels just right and everything is fine. 

There's some garbled foreign language over the pumping rhythm of the music, and then Hana is pushing them out of the kitchen and toward his bedroom. They can barely move through the crowd, but they stumble into the door and he fumbles with the knob, still entwined and infatuated. When they finally get in, the room is only slightly quieter, but it's easy to hear the “damn it” Hana spits before she slams the door behind them. She's going to have to end this party herself, because the guest of honor is too busy getting fucked. 

That sounds wonderful, now that he thinks about it, and all Lucio can feel is big hands pressing into his ribs and abs and anywhere they can be, the leather slick with sweat now. His shirt is already being pulled over his head, and the rumble of the music in the background makes it feel dirty, like they're in a strip club or in some back alley and that's exciting and invigorating. 

“Your hair is nice,” is the first nice thing the man says to him, and it's only because Lucio ran out of breath kissing him and had to pull away. Lucio is already running out of patience. He’ll chalk that up to the beer bleeding through him. He pushes the man onto his big, fluffy bed and starts to crawl over him. The man enjoys it. “You’re pretty strong for a little guy.”

“Stop talking,” Lucio mumbles, and the man is laughing high and squeaky; a cackle. But he doesn’t seem to be able to oblige, especially when Lucio starts tugging at his belt and undoing his too-tight jeans. His arms are crossed behind his head as Lucio works on undressing him, as if he can just sit back and relax.

“Sorry, mate. There’s just too much to say about you.”

Lucio yanks at the man’s pants in frustration, and out pops a happy erection, leaking and twitching, and the man is giggling again. It’s nice. Decent. Not terribly deformed. Sparse dark curls surround it, and it’s surprising, considering the rare blonde on his head. Maybe it’s fake, he wonders. But he doesn’t have time to ask, because the man surges forward, taking Lucio into his long, lean arms and flipping him onto his back with an oomf and a nauseating dizziness as the room moves too fast for his eyes to keep up. Lucio feels so very small, being pawed at by hands that could wrap around his entire bicep. He loves the insistent tugging and pulling, as his shirt is thrown away along with his pants. The man is between his legs, kissing at his abs, at the ripple of skin and muscles, nipping and sucking to leave barely-there bruises. Lovely touches and sweet sensations. Piercing bright eyes watch his face, and they are far too invested.

“Don’t start getting sappy now,” Lucio warns, but he kind of likes the attention. If he were true to himself for once, he’d know that this is just what he needs; a quick break from music and work and who he is. He needs something, or he supposes it’s a someone now, that makes him feel like he’s worth more than all that. He didn’t think that that someone might be this smarmy, odd-looking stranger who literally crawled into his house. He wants to think it bothers him, but somewhere deep inside, it doesn’t. “Who do you think you are?”

“Jamison,” he purrs into Lucio’s belly button, “But you can call me Jamie.”

To think Lucio had been about to bed a man without knowing his name. What would his mother say? Though, getting drunk and making poor decisions is not something to discuss with her anyway. Jamie’s fingers venture to his hips, down lower, until he’s got an insanely warm hand wrapped around him, and it’s got his brain all messed up. When had he taken off his glove? Lucio grips Jamie’s hair as he continues kissing at his belly, and the view of the handjob is blocked by light hair, wild eyebrows, and nothing but gold. There’s dark freckles pecked across Jamie’s face, under his eyes and at his nose. Too much Australian sun, at some point. And he feels it, the warmth of it still in his skin, burning on contact. A bite is timed with a rough tug on his cock, and Lucio jerks and moans.

“That’s right,” Jamie murmurs, and the drowsy lift of his eyelids reminds him that yeah, they’re both still very drunk. “More of that, if you don’t mind.”

Lucio was never much of a singer, but Jamie sure likes the sound of his voice. It’s hard to keep the noises in, when those long fingers are smoothing up and down his cock so beautifully. They squeeze at the head, rubbing circles at the opening, sending sweet little twinges up his spine. Lucio bucks his hips, fucking into that hand, while the other is pinching at his nipple. It’s a wave of pleasure that starts fires in his insides. He needs more.

“Take your clothes off, this isn’t fair,” Lucio groans. Jamie’s leather jacket sticks to his skin in an uncomfortable way, and the metal zipper is scratchy. But Jamie leans in closer anyway, pressing Lucio into the bed firmly.

“Nah, that’s not something you want to see,” he tells him, and that is far too curious. Scars? Tattoos? Lucio has a hard time believing this cocky son of a bitch has body image issues. He pulls up the hem of Jamie’s shirt, and he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. It bunches at his chest, revealing abs and leanness anyone would be jealous of. Lucio scoffs.

“Are you trying to save me from embarrassment? That you’ve got a better body than me?”

Jamie is grinning ear to ear, and even with his drunken eyes, Lucio can see the glint of gold teeth. “Opposite, actually. I got parts that ain’t as pretty as yours.”

“Lemme see,” Lucio demands, but the man just moves against him and presses their cocks together, burning and wonderful. He spreads Lucio’s legs wider as he ruts between them. He looms over him, but far enough away for Lucio not to be able to reach for his jacket to try and remove it. He’s still got one glove on.

“Maybe next time,” Jamie says, as if there will be one. Would there be? Lucio isn’t so sure about that, but it’s exciting to think about. He folds, albeit begrudgingly, and lays back to watch the man thrust against him, the nice, warm friction soothing him. He reaches to his side table and fumbles for the lube stashed in the drawer. He’s still not sober enough for efficient coordination, but he manages to pop the cap and ooze far too much of it onto his hand. He reaches down to grip both of them together tightly, and it’s a zing of cold slickness and amazing pressure. Jamie moans, breathless and giggly.

“You’re too fun,” Jamie says, bringing one of Lucio’s knees to his sly mouth, kissing right at the top. “Real perfect.”

He’s not used to such nice words in such a dirty voice. It makes his face heat up along with the rest of him. He pumps their cocks hard, and realizes he’s moving in a rhythm that might have matched one of his songs, one that he spent too much time working on and now it’s ingrained in his very being. Jamie lets out a cackle, as if he knows the song too. Does he know? How could he? Is he some sort of fanboy that knows his songs by heart? Would it be a terrible thing to fuck a fan?

Too many things to think about, and he’s too fucked up to even try. He has to focus on the now. Lucio likes the way Jamie holds his legs hostage, gripped tightly in place like he’s going to just float away if he doesn’t. As Lucio works them over, Jamie’s face grows more and more expressive. Jamie’s eyes are closed and his eyebrows are furrowed together in concentration, his face sweaty with exertion. His tongue escapes his mouth to lick at his lips, and his mouth just can’t seem to figure out what it wants to do. Smile? Laugh? Moan? Lucio would like to think his face is a little less out of control than Jamie’s is, but what would he know? Maybe he’s making a stupid face right back at him.

Jamie seems to grow tired of this bit of frottage they have going on, and it’s embarrassing how easily he can move Lucio around to his will. He grabs his arms and hauls him up onto his knees, then turns him around as if he’s just a doll to be put on display however he wants. Lucio gets that terrible spinning room feeling again, and he lets his head loll onto his shoulder just to get the movement to stop. Jamie presses against his back, sticky and hot, and the leather jacket just makes it more so. His dick slides between Lucio’s thighs, and he hold his legs together to create a tight, slick crevice to fuck. Lucio likes the feel of Jamie’s cock rubbing against his everything all at once, thrusting up easily from all the lube. He fumbles down there, guiding them together again, making him rub at the underside of his cock. Jamie moans, encouraging the touch as he thrusts back and forth. The bouncing on Jamie’s lap makes Lucio’s growing headache worse, but this position feels so good he can’t possibly give a shit.

“God,” Jamie whispers into the back of his neck, and Lucio wants to just lay against this man like a deadweight, let him take him over and ruin him without even trying. The breathy slobbering at his nape and shoulders is giving him goosebumps, the tugging at his dreads is just enough to feel right. He arches his back, and it earns him harder thrusts and fierce growls behind his ear. “Fuck yes.”

This isn’t supposed to feel this amazing, he thinks, as his brain starts to overload and his whole body trembles. It must be the beer making him feel like he’s in the clouds and every touch is a zap of lightning. Jamie’s fingers grip his thighs like a lifeline, fucking against him like a beast rather than a man, howling and biting and wild. The smack of ass against hips is intoxicating, the sticky slide of too much lube and excitement. Lucio grips them hard, and before he knows it, they crash into each other, over the edge with loud, uncaring bellows of pleasure. Jamie’s hips snap up painfully one last time before he spills in Lucio’s jittery hand, his whole body shaking like a vibration. It’s only a few more pumps before Lucio follows, and they come together in a lovely, drunken, foolish climax.

They go still for only a single second, fucked together and high on too many things, before Jamie gives out, dropping on his ass and falling onto his back. Lucio comes along for the trip of course, and he can’t say he doesn’t like the deep, exhausted breathing of the chest beneath him. It’s comforting, as he too tries to come back to earth. It lifts him up and down, sends a raging heartbeat through him that isn’t his. It’s foreign, this feeling of closeness. Touch hasn’t been something on his to-do list, and his body is singing at him. More, it pleads and begs. More.

Jamie has his cheek pressed against the back of his neck again, and the harsh breaths fan over Lucio’s skin like a humid summer breeze. He can feel Jamie’s arms starting to wrap around his waist, keeping him where he is. He feels like he might be crushing Jamie like this, but the man is so tall, so much bigger than him, that he doubts he weighs anything at all to him. He must not mind, with the way he clutches at him.

Everything is quiet except for their gasping. He can’t even hear the tireless streets just below his window. What happened to his dumb party? Interrupted by inebriation and a quick fuck. Hana sure cleared the place quickly. He’d have to make it up to her. But right now, he’s poisoned with pleasure and tired beyond all reason. The grip around his middle, feeling far too loving and comforting, makes his thoughts a little gooey. He wants to get up and clean himself up, to give this guy a proper send off, but all he can manage is to open his eyes, if barely, and stare at the dimly lit ceiling. His body is a bag of bricks and won’t listen to anything he tells it. He lays here, on top of this complete stranger, and falls asleep easier than he ever has before.

He’s not one to dream. Since his new neighbor moved in, he often doesn’t sleep long enough for them to come. He might even consider it a rare luxury. Tonight, everything is soft reds and pinks, bursts of green and yellow. They’re not dreams so much as they are feelings. Dark and quiet and cozy, like a blanket and cocoa during a winter rain. Sunday mornings and holidays. Peaceful, warm wonders.

He knows once he wakes up the feeling will be gone. It’ll be replaced with sticky, bodily mess and the coldness of a city, of reality. He’ll have to wake up to what he’s made of himself, to a thoughtless passion he may regret. He’s never been so reckless. Will he care in the morning, or will it be just another blip in his timeline? He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay in his sleepy dreamscape for an eternity he can’t afford.

But he has to wake up someday. And he does, with a heavy head and an insane headache that rivals the cracking of earthquakes. When he opens his eyes, it’s morning.

Morning. He had slept through the night without a peep from next door.

A miracle? Maybe. Or was he just so drunk he couldn’t even hear it? Is that the only way he can sleep through it? Getting sloshed? It wouldn’t be healthy, but a decent night’s rest was worth it, at least every once in awhile.

There’s a sound behind him, thick and reverberating like a deep bass from another room. But it’s right beside him, sitting up and slowly looking around, taking in the scenery. Blonde hair and a long nose and striking eyes. Jamie is still here. He stayed.

Lucio isn’t actually sure what to make of that. Is that good or bad? Did this guy think they were a thing now? Would he bother Lucio for more? He rubs at his face and makes another sound; a tired, pained groan. Lucio doubts this guy has a hangover like he does. He looked like he could put it away just fine last night. But he does look out of it. Waking up in a stranger’s bed does that, he supposes.

He feels Jamie take a deep breath only to sigh it out, long and sleepy. He turns to look down at Lucio, but he immediately closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. He’s not up for a talk right now. He just wants to keep laying here until this pulsating ache is gone. He hasn’t felt like this in years, not since college. He thinks he may have turned into an old man somewhere down the line; simple pleasures and no adventure.

Jamie is still watching him, or at least still sitting next to him, because he hasn’t moved yet. It’s so uncomfortable, pretending to sleep while completely on the spot. He’s probably studying every part of Lucio’s face like a weirdo; a dumb, romantic weirdo. Lucio has to time his breathing, make sure his eyelids don’t twitch and give him away. His headache makes him want to massage at his temple and brows, but he can’t. It sucks.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his face, cupping at his cheek and running a calloused thumb across his lips. God, Lucio may have flinched and ruined his ruse. His breath hitches in his chest. He could just open his eyes and get whatever this is over with. Or prolong it. But he doesn’t, just stays still and breathes. He can’t deal with this right now.

Then it’s a kiss, and goddamn it, it’s all sweet on his forehead. It’s got his guts in a knot and his blood pumping. It’s slow, quiet, like in the movies, seconds of pure and meaningful contact. He hates how it makes him question everything all at once. He’s still so fucked up, even after hours of sleeping. In that moment, nothing is like how it used to be. He wants that. He wants more of this.

Jamie pulls back, and he rustles about with his clothes, the sliding of fabric loud in Lucio’s ears. The jacket is patted down, sleeves fixed, and he’s probably running a hand through his hair. One more long, mournful sigh and then Jamie opens the door and leaves.

Lucio pops an eye open and watches him go, admiring the long stride and the heavy thunk of steel-toed boots. His legs look so thin in those skinny jeans, with all the holes and badly mended patches. They’re antiques from a fashion era long since gone, and Lucio loves that. He watches as the man climbs out onto the balcony, and Lucio needs to withhold an embarrassing laugh as Jamie’s long legs hike over the edge. He has a perfectly functioning door, what is with him in climbing out windows?

And all of a sudden, as he watches Jamie slide over the bars and onto the balcony beside his, onto his neighbor’s balcony, that he knows exactly where he came from, who he is, what kind of a person he is. He’s the kind that stays up all night, banging and revving and clicking.

Lucio shoots up from his bed, and pain bursts through his entire body like he’s been hit by a car. He might throw up. But he manages to fumble into the clothes strewn across the ground, pulling them on as quickly as he can. His shirt is on backwards and his pants aren’t zipped, but fuck it. He wobbles across his living room, out his front door, and starts banging on his neighbor’s door.

“Jamie!” He screams, and his own voice hurts to hear. It’s too early for this. At least he thinks it is. Is he going to wake the others down his hall? Probably. But he keeps at it. “Jamie, open this door!”

There’s a crash, just as before, like a stack of metal cans falling over, and obscenities in that funny, foreign twang. He can finally put a face to this person, and it fills him with a rage he can’t even begin to describe. He hears more shuffling, things being knocked over, kicked out of the way. A hoarder. He had sex with a hoarder. Lucio balls his fists so hard he feels his knuckles crack.

The lock on the door rattles, and it slowly opens until there’s a very tall, very bashful looking Jamie standing in front of him. His grin is lopsided with weariness, like a child caught in the act. Just as he’d mentioned last night, the room is messy with metal and tools, half-made machines and scrap. “Well hey there, music man!”

Lucio takes a step forward, and Jamie takes a much larger one back, hands up. “Okay, so, hear me out, I didn’t know you lived there! Honest! Thought you were just throwing a party for my neighbor! Didn’t know my neighbor was you!”

His nose flares as he tries not to start yelling again. Neither of them have ever seen each other’s faces before, sure, but that’s not a good reason to torment someone. So many sleepless nights and unproductive days because of him. He’d forgotten what peace and quiet sounded like, what a full eight hours felt like. And the cause of it all is right here. Jamie is a twitching, nervous thing now, nonchalant attitude gone. Nothing like the man from yesterday. “I’m sorry, cross my heart, I am!”

Jamie had been an absolute terror. And now that Lucio’s come face to face with his torturer, it’s hard not to want to exact revenge. Lucio wants to complain and rant and go on forever about how much he hates him and what he’s done to him, but he’s not one to be vindictive. He can forgive and forget, if given enough time. He can do that. He’ll have to eventually.

A deep breath, and Lucio uncurls his hands, waving them about. His screaming headache is still telling him to go back to bed, but he’s here instead. He can’t be fighting right now. Just chill. Jamie still looks ready to take a hit, tense and silent, except for the little titter of a giggle as he tries to ease himself. “Just,” Lucio starts, not really sure if he can think of anything decent to say, “cut it out, okay? You gotta let me sleep, man. It’s fucked up.”

Jamie nods quick and exaggerated. “You got it. No more.”

Now they’re standing here in this torn up apartment, filled to the brim with oily parts and junk, with nothing left to say to each other. It’s awkward beyond words, and the only sound is the street below, with the beeping cars and the faint hustle of business. Neither of them really know what to do. It’s moments more of nothing before Jamie finally moves, standing tall with a stupid, infuriating grin. The flirty attitude from the night before seems to have found itself again, now that he’s out of danger. He rests his arm up on the door, predatory eyes wandering over Lucio up and down, and Lucio hates this, hates whatever is going to come out of his mouth. 

“So,” he drawls, “wanna make some noise together?”

Lucio pulls his fist back with all his might and slams it into Jamie’s stomach.

**Author's Note:**

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